


Some nights

by CrystalInstinct



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Depression, Feelings, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Tuckington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalInstinct/pseuds/CrystalInstinct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot Tuckington. Nights are filled with lots of emotions. Tucker's dealing with a lot of stuff on the roof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some nights

**Author's Note:**

> Something I just wrote to get out of my system.
> 
> Just some feelings I've been dealing with adapted to a colorful space marine.
> 
> Notes from 2017: This is messy I know, it was written and posted in under an hour during the haze of a depressive episode. I intend to edit it later but for now it remains as is. Just keep this in mind, it's not polished at all.

Sometimes the darkness was too overbearing. Like it crushed down with the weight of a thousand suns, like it crushed everybody underneath it. Like it sucked out the light, the air and the warmth out of everything important.

Sometimes the silence was so loud that he couldn’t feel himself anymore. Like it screamed into the void like a pack of wolves crying in pain. Sometimes it would deafen him, incapacitate him until he gasped for a breath.

Sometimes the guilt hit like a brick wall. Sometimes it crept up from the shadows and poisoned the soul and tainted his brain. Sometimes it was right there in front of him, sometimes it would punch the air out of his lungs until he was gasping for air, for any release.

Sometimes the pressure would be too much, too heavy on his shoulders. Sometimes he missed them. All of them, all of them he had lost into the darkness. All of them that had been taken away, all he had left behind, all who he had gotten killed. All of them he couldn’t save. All of them weighing him down on the long nights.

Sometimes he would find himself on the rooftops lost in painful thoughts too loud to ignore and too vague to kill. During these times he would sit with his back against the air-conditioning units and his gaze up in the stars. He would leave his helmet by his side, ignoring the warnings the others had voiced of being unarmoured outside the protective walls.

Sometimes he would think about home, about the sunny days of summer and the cosy evenings of the winter. Of the bad stuff too, like wet socks in the coldness when the dampness seeped through thick boots, about sunburnt noses that itched in the night. About the loud birds in the morning when all he wanted was to sleep. About the feeling of his fingers growing colder even when covered in woolly gloves.

Sometimes he would think about the good days. About the canyon, about Church and about Caboose. Sometimes he would think about the simpler days, about how his largest worry was about not having a sniper rifle of his own. Sometimes he would think about the long talks they would have with Flowers. He might even think about the reds, always bickering in the distance.

Sometimes he would think about the bad stuff, about the problems between his team, about his worry about Caboose’s health, about Omega and O’Malley. He might think about the time when Church died, the time when he thought he lost his son or the time the whole canyon was filled with fear and loss and sadness.

He would think about his son. He would think about his whereabouts, his health. About if he was happy, if he was sad or if he was good at school. What if he was bullied, what if he was lonely. About whether he had made the right choice in sending him away. He would think about the good stuff, about their days together and the talks they had had in the evenings before he went to bed. Sometimes he would think about if he was proud of his father or if he resented him about leaving him. Sometimes the guilt ate him up, sometimes the stars alleviated the longing as he figured Junior was somewhere looking up at different stars.

Sometimes he felt angry, sometimes he was outraged. Sometimes he would think about the Director and hoped so much worse for him that had eventually happened. Sometimes he would pace and kick the roof in rage. He would think about how his life would be different if the Director had gotten over his love like he expected everybody else to do. Sometimes the urge to scream into the darkness would be too much and he would scream himself hoarse before collapsing back against the air conditioning unit.

Sometimes he would think about all the men he had lost. He would think about Flowers, his first captain who had been so good for him teaching him so much. He would think about Church, how empty he felt as Caboose had shot him down, had killed his first best friend he had had. He would think about the way Omega had messed with Caboose. He would think about Tex and how she had died all those times he had known her. She would think about how he watched the ship carrying his son explode. He would think about Sheila, how she had been left behind. He would think about all the times everybody he knew had been hurt. He would think about Cunningham and Rogers. He would remember how they had looked up at him trusting him like he had once trusted Flowers. He would think about all the other Feds and News he had seen die.

He would think about all of them, he would think about them until he couldn’t breathe anymore. He would see their faces and hear their voices. He would blame the Director, the Freelancers and most of all he would blame himself. He would think about how he let them all down.

Other nights he would think about Wash. He would think about how the man had endured so much, seen so much and felt so much. He would think about how he still went on. He would think about all the late night talks, all the arguments over stupid shit, about his obvious care for all of the Reds and Blues. He would think about him a lot.

Some nights he would just lay down on the roof and shut everything off. He would just lay there without his helmet without the worries of the day. He would recharge himself in the dim light from the stars and the streetlights way underneath him. He would think about life and about everything except the things that hurt him. He would compartmentalize those for other nights filled with despair and sadness and rage. These nights he would just lay there listening to the sounds of the sleeping city and the steady beating of his heart.

But every night he would soon find himself in the company of the grey and yellow armoured man. Some nights he would watch him rage on or just sit there with him as he cried. But every night he was there. Even though he didn’t say much he was there. He would sit with him, he would comfort him and he would care.

And every night as he had gotten most of the sadness off his soul or the rage filling his mind, he would take his hand and he would lead him off of the roof and back into the sleeping quarters. And every night they would curl up together in the single bed, his hands wrapping around the others frame. Every night Wash’s fingers would tangle themselves in his hair as their feet would do the same.  

And every night he would say the same thing.

“Thanks Wash.”

And Wash would reply the same thing he always did.

“Don’t worry about it.”

And every night the taller man would kiss his forehead. And every night Tucker would sleep soundly until they repeated the same the next night.


End file.
